


drape me in your warmth

by apostolosian (mercutioes)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Bondage, Impact Play, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, this is just a whole lot and i won't apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/apostolosian
Summary: hadrian tries something new





	drape me in your warmth

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in the nebulous modern AU where samothes and samot are the rich co-owners of a luxury bdsm-ware company, ephrim is their joint sugar baby, and hadrian has recently stopped being oblivious to their seduction attempts and started sleeping with them.
> 
> sam and i came up with the premise for this, which was "what if hadrian saw flogging marks on ephrim and wanted to try"
> 
> title from a troye sivan song (thanks nico!)

Between the two of them, they get him strapped to the cross easily — legs spread and the muscles of his arms taut, the wood of the frame pressing into his stomach where the beams intersect.

“Comfortable?” asks Samothes, double checking the straps around Hadrian’s wrists and ankles, his hands sure and warm.  He smiles, and Hadrian shivers with the exposed feeling and the attention both. He can hear Ephrim moving around behind him, heels clicking on the floor.

“Yeah,” he says, flexing his wrists and shifting his weight from foot to foot.  Samothes runs his palms up Hadrian’s arms, guiding his hands so he’s gripping the top of the cross for support.

“There you go,” Samothes murmurs.  “Gorgeous.” He presses his lips to Hadrian’s forehead, his cheek and then, finally, to his lips — comforting and firm and gone too soon.  He retreats to the wide chair against the wall, still close but far enough away to feel like an observer, an audience.

“What do you think?” asks Ephrim, running an appraising hand up Hadrian’s spine.  He’s clearly talking to Samothes, not Hadrian, and it makes heat pool in Hadrian's stomach.  “Too soon for a cane or a whip, of course.”

“Of course.”  Samothes’ tone is indulgent, like he’s humoring Ephrim in this game of theirs.  He is, in a way — Hadrian knows that on any other day, Ephrim would be in his place with Samothes behind him.  The image is enough to have him gripping hard at the wooden frame under his fingers.

“Why don’t we start him out easy,” continues Ephrim, digging in his nails as he passes his hand over Hadrian’s back.  “A paddle first and if you’re good —” and Ephrim’s lips are near his ear, his whole body pressed up against him, “— maybe we’ll bring out the crop.  How does that sound?” Hadrian opens his mouth but finds himself at a loss.

“Just give us a yes or no,” Samothes says from his chair, gaze piercing.  This, he can manage, a small  _ yes  _ in the stillness of the room.

There’s quiet for a minute — Ephrim checks the ropes again, though it seems like it might just be an excuse for him to run his perfectly-manicured nails down Hadrian’s stretched arms, up the insides of his thighs.  Hadrian shivers — he’s half-hard, anticipation and fear and arousal mixing and clenching in his gut.

“Well,” Ephrim murmurs, “are we ready?”

Hadrian nods, hoping that’s enough answer — he doesn’t trust his voice.  Ephrim leaves him with a kiss to the nape of his neck, moving to the table of equipment against the wall.  There’s the swish of something cutting through the air — the paddle, assumedly — and the sound is sharp and vicious and makes Hadrian’s mind go blank, fingers clenching harder.  Then there’s smooth, cool wood on Hadrian’s ass, just resting against his skin.

“Color?” murmurs Ephrim in his ear, quiet enough that he’s not sure Samothes can hear.

“Green,” he manages in a small voice.  He can feel Ephrim smile.

“Good.  Let’s begin.”  Hadrian forces himself to take a deep breath in, and — 

The  _ smack _ rings out in the room and Hadrian gasps, caught by surprise.  It was barely hard enough to sting but it makes sparks shoot up his spine all the same.  The paddle comes down again, harder, and Hadrian yanks at the ropes around his wrists, presses forward into the wood of the cross, body instinctively trying to flinch away but coming up short.  Helpless, completely.

The blows are unpredictable, alternating between light and teasing and heavier, aching, stinging for long moments after it’s landed.  The burn moves from his ass down to his thighs as Ephrim works him over — he shifts his weight from foot to foot in an unconscious effort to alleviate the pain but he’s spread too far, can’t move at all from this position.  He’s panting, head hanging low and eyes screwed shut.

“How does it feel, Hadrian?” Samothes asks, voice carrying low and commanding from his chair.  He licks his lips, tries to form words but they won’t coalesce in his brain. He makes a soft noise when Ephrim gets a hand in his hair and yanks him up to look at Samothes, fingers tight against his scalp.

“He asked you a question,” Ephrim purrs.  “Answer him.”

“Ephrim,” Samothes chides.  “Be patient. Give him time.”  Ephrim runs his nails down over Hadrian’s inflamed skin and he shudders, squirms on the cross.

“He needs a little incentive, I think.”  A moment of stillness, and then there’s the cool slide of leather down Hadrian’s spine, lower to tease at the crease of his thighs.  “Tell us how it feels to belong to us.” Hadrian’s eyes slip shut, head falling forward without his permission at the sensation. Ephrim presses in close against his back, brings the crop around and pushes Hadrian’s head up with the length of it under his chin.  “Look at him and tell him.”

“It’s good,” he manages, voice coming out hoarse and rough.  “It’s… I like belonging to you.” Samothes’ smile is encouraging, satisfied.  He’d say anything to keep that smile on him. Ephrim hums, pleased.

“Keep talking,” he says, pulling the crop away and taking a step back.  “Tell him how good it feels to be ours.” Hadrian groans as the paddle lands again, burning.  Then Ephrim’s nails down his back, joining the myriad scratches already aching on his skin, then the paddle again, two stinging blows.

“It’s… I…”  Hadrian struggles to make the words come, focuses through the pain on the hunger in Samothes’ eyes.  “I want to be good for you, I… it hurts but I want to be good, yours, want to —”

It’s that moment that Ephrim brings the crop down on Hadrian’s back, little stinging blows that feel  _ nothing _ like the dull, blunt heat of the paddle.  The leather falls across the long furrows from Ephrim’s nails, raising welts each place it lands.

“You’re doing very well for us,” Samothes says.  He shifts his gaze to Ephrim. “How much more can he take?”  Ephrim hums, pauses, rubs over Hadrian’s ass with the flat of his hand to soothe the sting into a dull burn.

“I’ll give him another fifteen,” Ephrim says, “though I suspect he’d take anything for us, wouldn’t you?”  The crop falls on his inner thighs, one after the other, and Hadrian jerks. “ _ Wouldn’t you _ ?" Ephrim prompts, and Hadrian realizes that he wants an answer.

“Yeah, yes, I’d take it for you,” he pants, keeps babbling until the paddle and the crop begin to fall again, alternating in unpredictable patterns — dull, blunt pain mixed with an acute, biting sting.  Hadrian can only shift and clench his fists and cry out with every blow. His eyes slip shut at some point, the world goes fuzzy. He can hear Samothes and Ephrim speaking to each other, talking about  _ him _ but he can’t quite make out the words, the fearful anticipation of each strike taking up the entirety of his focus.  Every time he thinks it must be done, must be over, Ephrim keeps going until he doesn’t think he can take any more of it.

He does, though.  He takes it. He wants to be  _ so good _ for them.

Hadrian’s limbs shake, his thighs aching from standing spread and his fingers cramping from gripping at the cross so hard.  He’s stretched taut, a rubber band about to snap, and yet somehow he wants to melt into nothing at the same time. The crop falls several times on the burning skin of his back, sharper than before, and he almost screams, trailing into a sob as the pain travels like electricity up his limbs to his fingertips and down to the bottoms of his feet.

“That’s enough, Ephrim,” Samothes says, and the relief of it settles in Hadrian’s stomach like lead.  He’s made it through, he’s been strong for them, and the stinging burn in his back is living proof of it.

“You should see his back, Samothes.”  Ephrim runs cool fingertips down the length of his spine, over the small welts and blossoming bruises.  “He’s gorgeous.”

“He is,” Samothes agrees, standing and stepping closer to them.  He cups Hadrian’s cheek, hand large and warm, and strokes his thumb over his cheekbone.  “You did very well, Hadrian. You did perfectly.” Ephrim hums in agreement, pressing lips to the nape of Hadrian’s neck, and Hadrian shivers so hard it feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin, aching and overwhelmed.

“He deserves a reward, I think,” says Ephrim, and Samothes smiles, hand still firm on Hadrian’s cheek.

“What do you suggest?”

“Let me blow him.”  Samothes raises an eyebrow at Ephrim, and Hadrian can feel Ephrim’s grin against his shoulder.  “May I blow him,  _ sir _ ?”  Something changes in the air at that, electric.  Samothes’ gaze zeroes back in on Hadrian, laser-focused.  Hadrian licks his lips.

“Is that what you’d like?” Samothes asks.  Hadrian’s breathed,  _ yes _ , is almost inaudible.  Samothes presses a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, brushes over his lips to get at his neck.  He'd gone soft during the beating but he can feel himself getting aroused again. He whines when Ephrim helpfully pulls his head back so Samothes can run his lips down Hadrian's throat, other hand reaching around to tug at Hadrian's nipple.  He chokes on a broken sound as Samothes runs fingertips over his half-hard cock, coaxing him harder. He pulls back, finally, steps back to survey them both. Ephrim steps around Hadrian to get into Samothes’ space, smug grin still on his face.

“Well?” he asks, walking one hand up Samothes’ bare chest. “Can I?”

Hadrian bites hard at his lip when Samothes catches Ephrim's wrist in one hand and yanks him back by the hair with the other.  Ephrim's grin disappears and his mouth falls open, eyes going half-lidded.

“You're getting ahead of yourself,” Samothes says, steely warning in his voice.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Ephrim says, voice gone breathy and quiet.  Samothes holds him there, tightens his grip to make Ephrim whine and strain against the hold.  “Sir, please may I blow him?”

“That's better.” Samothes guides Ephrim to his knees in front of Hadrian, eye level with Hadrian's cock, his taut thighs straining from being spread so long.

He’d thought all the strength was gone from his limbs, but when Ephrim leans up and slides his mouth over Hadrian’s cock in one smooth motion, he pulls hard on the ropes around his wrists.  It’s so  _ good _ , such a contrast to the ache of the rest of his body, a white-hot point of pleasure through the haze.  Samothes presses up against his back, runs his broad hands over the planes of Hadrian’s chest, his stomach.  It’s grounding, keeps him anchored in his skin when all of him just wants to sag and float away.

He comes down Ephrim’s throat with a ragged cry, voice hoarse and worn, sparks dancing behind his eyes.  He’s vaguely aware of Samothes untying his wrists while Ephrim frees his ankles, of being led to a bed across the room that will hold all three of them.

Ephrim lies down first and Samothes guides Hadrian so he’s curled up against Ephrim’s side.  Ephrim pets his hair, presses a kiss to his forehead while Samothes checks him over. He rubs something cool and soothing into the welts and bruises all up Hadrian’s back and into the raw rings around his wrists and ankles.

“You still with us, Hadrian?” Samothes asks, voice rumbling softly in the quiet of the room.  Hadrian wants to respond but all he can think to do is bury his face in Ephrim’s chest, making a small affirmative sound against the smooth skin there.  Ephrim laughs fondly, presses his lips to the top of Hadrian’s head.

“I think we’ve broken him,” Ephrim says, nails running a gentle pattern up and down the nape of Hadrian’s neck.

“M’okay,” Hadrian manages, voice still muffled.

“Hey,” Samothes murmurs.  “Can you look at me?” Hadrian forces himself to turn, brain still exceedingly fuzzy.  Samothes cups his face with one broad hand, runs his thumb over the line of his cheek. “You were incredible,” he says, and Hadrian shivers.  “Thank you for trusting us.”

And after everything he’s done tonight,  _ that’s _ too much — he buries his head back in the crook of Ephrim’s neck, unable to look Samothes in the face.  Samothes chuckles, spooning up behind Hadrian, careful of the welts.

They wait patiently until the fog in Hadrian’s brain clears enough for him to look up, kissing each of them in turn.  He murmurs something along the lines of “thank you,” and Samothes hums, kissing him again.

“We’ll have to try this again,” he says, and something warm settles in Hadrian’s chest.

“Besides,” says Ephrim, and the lazy smirk is back in his voice, “It’d be a shame for both of us if I never get to cane you.”

Hadrian buries his face in Ephrim’s chest and feels the quiet buzz of his laugh.


End file.
